


Die Every Day

by wss_holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Declarations Of Love, Drugs, Gen, M/M, Overdosing, Post-The Sign of Three, Pre-His Last Vow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wss_holmes/pseuds/wss_holmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What exactly are you supposed to do when you spill your heart to the person you love in front of their wife in the dead of night? Sherlock knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die Every Day

**Author's Note:**

> ALL credit for this headcanon goes to croptops on tumblr. **Just as a warning, there are heavy drug references so if that triggers you, I recommend not reading this.**

"You wan' anotha hit, mate?"

Sherlock ran his the tips of his fingers over his lips and let his head fall sideways in the direction of Billy. His fingers fell and tapped lightly on his neck, touching his Adam's apple. Billy extended a dollar bill to Sherlock, who took it dazedly. Line up the cocaine, carefully now. Try not to catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror shard, you might see what you've become. One line, then two, then three. Just enough to keep Sherlock in the dark about his own pain. Wiggins snatched his dollar bill back from Sherlock's fingers. 

"Money's tight 'round here, see? Me an' the boys were gonna go out tonight, get anotha gram or two. You comin'?" 

Sherlock leaned back and pressed his hands into the mattress, taking in a broad view of the dingy room around him as casually as if he were on holiday. Wiggins mirrored his posture opposite him. 

"Maybe not," Sherlock muttered, his eyes falling on Billy. 

"Sure you've got big plans then."

"No."

"Gonna stay 'ere, think big thoughts, dream of big things, 'ey? Cocaine does that to people like you. Seen it myself." Billy drew his torso forward and picked at the cement between his feet. 

Sherlock let out a scoff. "'People like me.' The hell is that even supposed to mean?" 

Wiggins shifted his eyes up to Sherlock and scanned them across the room. 

"There's a reason we got all blokes 'ere. Not many women come crawlin' in, and we like it that way. Keeps us focused. The way I see it, ya get a woman in here, talkin' to everyone, gettin' her lady bits in every man's face, then what? They all want a go at her! Now normally, that's all well an' fine but these boys are on cocaine, snortin' it like there's no tomorrow. Cocaine an' love, that ain't a good mix. Gets ya twice as messed up in the head."

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment, trying to decipher Billy's musings. 

"I think you've had far too much cocaine yourself," he concluded. 

Wiggins stood and sat beside Sherlock on his mattress, allowing them a full view of the shabby crack den. After panning his eyes over several sleeping bodies, he pointed to a small mass laying turned away from them, three yards from their mattress. 

"That boy there, Scott." Sherlock flicked his eyes to the man, shifting restlessly in his sleep. "Got a couple-a women on the side, few years ago. Real careful chap, always kept 'em apart, 'til one day they both show up at 'is house at the same time. One bird thought he said Friday, he meant Saturday. The two of 'em slapped him senseless, then took his flat and half his cash for a year. 'Child support' or whatcha call it." 

"Dear God, if you've got a point, make it," Sherlock interrupted. 

"Point is," Billy continued, "that if one of 'em were to come to him right now, as he's layin' there, do you think he'd take her back?" 

"...probably." 

"Exactly!" Wiggins exclaimed with a thrash of his arm. "That's a problem for us, ya see. Scott's our main supply. He's got the cash, most out of all of us. Women come, boys leave, hurts the rest of us." 

Wiggins rose from his spot and crossed to Scott, squatting beside him. He carefully pulled a small wad of cash from the front pocket of his sweatpants and deposited it into his own. 

"Like to see the women get ahold-a this," Billy said confidently, patting his pocket and sitting beside Sherlock again. 

"None of this relates to me, Billy. Not a word."

"Eh, that's right, you're a fruit or whateva ya call it. Sirens don't get it up for you." 

"What the hell a–"

Wiggins cut him off. "What? 'How do I know?' Look who you're talkin' to, mate. You could have easily deduced the same thing outta me." 

Silence fell, both pairs of eyes wandering to the spaces in front of them. 

"What gave it away?" Sherlock asked quietly. 

"Jack."

"Jack?" 

"Yeah," Wiggins affirmed. "That bloke I see ya with in the papers, blond hair." 

"John," Sherlock corrected with an edge in his voice. 

"Jack, John, does it look like I fuckin' care? He's your woman," Billy explained, twisting the dollar between his fingers. "That's what couples do, innit? Give each other googly eyes, go everywhere togetha, flirt or somethin'? You two do that. Me an' Henry had a bet for 20 quid that you were shackin' it up with him." 

"He's not mine!" 

"So the truth comes out." Wiggins scooted off the edge of the mattress and picked up a bag of cocaine laying openly on his mattress. Sitting down with a long sigh, he set up four lines and snorted three of them, offering the last one to Sherlock, who gratefully accepted. After letting all their words fill the air and sink in, Billy's voice pierced the silence. 

"What're ya gonna do 'bout it?" 

Despite the nature of the subject at hand, the two of them held a relaxed disposition, casual and distant. 

"Same thing any rational person ought to do. Forget it, never speak of it again. You were telling me about Scott, being in love only caused him trouble. Why shouldn't I stay away from love, like small ol' Scott? We're in the same boat."

"Mate, you're bein' blind, missin' the obvious." Billy shook his head. "His old women, couple-a bastards. No love, took him for all he had. No love," he repeated once more. 

"Mmm, yes!" Sherlock exclaimed with fake enthusiasm. "I forgot about the vast amounts of love in our non-existent relationship! You truly are a genius, Wiggins!" 

"You laugh now, you'll be thankin' me later." 

Billy laid down on his bed, kicking the ball of matted sheets to the side and resting on his back. Starting to whistle low, he folded his hands over his stomach and swayed his feet in rhythm with his song. Sherlock's eye passed over him for a long moment. 

"Alright, I'll bite. Shut up, I don't want to hear your annoying whistle. Why would I be thanking you later?" 

Billy turned his head to him, pulling his lips together. 

"I know how to seduce. Natural ability o' mine. Ladies love me, flock to me with everythin' already out and ready. And I've gotta plan, already worked out for you and your lover-boy. Real romantic. Sure fire, bulletproof, solid." 

"Out with it." Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his knuckles to the ground beside him. 

Wiggins resumed looking at the ceiling, stretching his legs and feet, mindlessly moving his body. 

"Seen it in a movie once. Ya go to his flat, burst in through the front door and say this." He put on a deep, rich, American accent and dropped his chin as he spoke. "'Baby, you and me, now that's a good idea.'" He dropped the voice and continued. "Get real fluffy and romantic, see? People love that. Gettin' all deep, thinkin' big thoughts." Wiggins shot a side glance to Sherlock. 

"...it's just crazy enough to work," Sherlock murmured, picking at a thread on his shirt. 

"You've had enough cocaine to do somethin' crazy," Wiggins added. 

With an effort, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, stumbling around but managing to balance himself on his toes. 

"Goin' somewhere?" Billy inquired. 

"Jack's flat."

"I thought it was John."

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I'm going to John's flat. And I'm going to convince him that I am a good idea, that he should dump Mary, then I'm going to ask him to get me off drugs... mmmm, maybe after a few days," he added, looking to the shards on the floor as if they were a crutch he needed to get by. 

Billy shook his head. "Naw mate, it's John or drugs, ya can't have both. I told ya, both makes a person too messed up in the head. Go berserk. You hafta choose." 

Less than a second later, Sherlock yanked his scarf from the floor and wrapped it around his neck, and trying not to fall. Stepping over sleeping and passed out bodies, he hurried to the door. Wiggins called after him with veiled affection. 

"I don't wanna see you 'round 'ere again!" 

 

Four attempted free rides in taxicabs later, and Sherlock managed to stumble his way to John's doorstep, clutching tightly to the rails on the sidesteps. He slammed his palms into the door, but they yielded no response from within. After digging in his pockets, Sherlock pulled out the spare key, given to him with trust by John. He let himself in, the keys dropping from his fingers although he didn't bother to pick them up. Stalking his way through the downstairs revealed no sign of John or Mary. Not a surprise given the late hour. Dropping to his knees, Sherlock started the ascent up the stairs and peered around the corner. John and Mary's sleeping forms could be seen silhouetted against the darkness. Quickly jumping up, Sherlock burst into the room and flicked on a light, giving the room a glow just soft enough to keep the crevasses of Sherlock's face in shadow. 

"Ah, what the hell!" John exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the lamp beside him. 

Mary stirred and sat up in bed with a start, clutching John's forearm. "J–..! Sherlock, is that you?" She blinked in an attempt to dissipate the blurriness. 

"John I need to speak with you urgently, it's really important."

Pulling the blankets up higher, John glanced to the clock on the bedside table. "Sherlock what the bloody hell is wrong with you?! It's 2:30 in the morning! If it's a case, it could have waited! Why are you in our room?! What the hell are you doing?!" 

"S-something came up, and it just couldn't wait." 

"What's wrong, are you hurt?" A quick look of guilt and concern flashed across John's face. 

"What's wrong is that you're with Mary!" A second later, Sherlock pointed accusingly at her, like a delayed reaction. 

"...are you drunk?? You're acting like this is new information, I've been with her for a while now Sherlock, remember? You went to our wedding?"

"Sherlock, if there's no real emergency, get out of our room!" Mary interjected. 

"There is an emergency!" Sherlock shouted passionately. "I was with you and I was happy but I left and you were with her and I came back and I was unhappy! And I've been unhappy every day since I came back! I die every day cos I thought I could provide you with a special happiness, but apparently she can do just the same! I wanted to be special to you! Not another cookie-cutter acquaintance in your life! And there's so many other things I want to say but I can't, because that's just who I am. But I've wanted to say them, badly, and I can never form the words that fit just right and can describe what I want from you right now. I wanted you for years but I know the only thing you want from me right now is to leave." Tears started to pool in Sherlock's eyes and spill over. "I know I'm high, and I know I'm rude and obnoxious but all I ever wanted was for you to fall for me and accept my flaws so maybe I could accept them too. Maybe I could think one day that I deserved you." His voice started to shake and quiver. "I'm so sorry, John. This speech has messed up everything beyond repair but I just couldn't take the pressure on my chest anymore!" The last part of the sentence trailed up into an almost screaming passion. "Trying to cave in my rib cage! ...I miss you, I love you, and I'm sorry I couldn't be everything you needed..."

John started to say something, brushing Mary's hand off his arm but Sherlock's already stumbling back and making his way downstairs, letting out an occasional whine of pain. He kicks the keys to side into the den, by a table leg, where John can find them. Sherlock stepped out the door and closed it gently behind him, pressing his forehead against it, hoping to hear John's footfall against the stairs as he rushes to join him. But all is silent. 

John managed to find Sherlock the next morning. At the crack den, John felt out of place, but he tried to reason with Sherlock. John tried to be kind, then he tried to be cold, but nothing seemed to work. He still received the silent treatment. 

And the motionless treatment... 

And the breathless treatment...

The funeral was held on a Sunday in late May, with several clouds dotting the sky, several tears staining John's cheeks, and only several people filling the chairs.


End file.
